


All For You

by lumosinlove



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: John Watson - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, johnlock fanfiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-10-12 03:15:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10480860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumosinlove/pseuds/lumosinlove
Summary: In which Sherlock comes back after pretending to be dead for two years, finds John moved out of Baker Street and nearly engaged. he's deduced two possible reactions...but not this.





	1. Chapter 1

Of all the outcomes Sherlock had prepared himself for, this was not one of them. There had been two scenarios in his head, two ways John’s emotions could play out. Shock was, in both scenarios, naturally the primary stage. That is logically what happens when a previously thought dead person presents themselves. It was the stages that came _after_ the shock is where it got tricky, given that Sherlock had to take into factor that they were surrounded by the public eye, in a very crowded, very upscale restaurant. It was where the road split. Road one: Shock would be followed by disbelieve, perhaps tears, but most likely not with John. No, it was more likely disbelief would lead to laughter, the slightly bitter kind that Sherlock could _picture_ on John’s face, the kind that would melt into relief, maybe even a slightly uncharacteristic hug. It might be a briefer display of emotion due to the public eye but at least Sherlock would know it was alright now.

The second road was not preferred but it ended the same. On this path anger followed the shock, maybe John stormed out of the restaurant, maybe delivered Sherlock a rightly deserved punch… But they were together in the end. Sherlock was forgiven in the end.

He never thought, however, that the stage of anger would be so prolonged. He never imagined that John wouldn’t eventually get along to embracing his lost best friend. Sherlock never pictured John leaving him standing alone on the curb of a dumpy fish and chip place with a bloody nose.

Ms. Hudson, on the other hand, had had exactly the reaction Sherlock had predicted when he walked into 221B. She’d screamed, cried, screamed again when he placed a gentle hand on her arm, and proceeded to alternate between the two for the next hour. Sherlock could barely focus on her however, only being able to think about how, as she wrapped him in a very tight hug, he would do anything to have experienced this reaction twice that night.

“Oh Sherlock,” Ms. Hudson patted his cheek fondly, a smile brightening her face, “I take it you’ve seen John?”

Sherlock tense, “Yes. Yes, of course.”

She laughed delightedly, squeezing his hand before bustling into the kitchen, “I’ll get the kettle on for you two, then.”

Sherlock unknotted his scarf, hanging it on the familiar coat hanger, taking note in the back of his mind the relief that filled his chest at being, well, home, “Sorry?”

Ms. Hudson looked over her shoulder, “Well, I gather he’ll be around shortly, yes?”

Sherlock froze half way through shrugging out of his coat, the thought hitting him harder than he expected. _Would he?_

“Yes.” Sherlock said stiffly, dropping his coat over a chair—John’s chair—with a flourish, “Yes, of course. Tea would be lovely, thank you.”

Ms. Hudson gave him another firm kiss on the cheek and a _Oh Sherlock, do play some violin for me tomorrow. I can’t tell you how I’ve missed it_ , and left him to “get settled.”

Sherlock had prepared the tea with shaking fingers. _Of course John would be around_. He wouldn’t let the night end like it had would he? He’d want to see Sherlock. Definitely. John was a man of answers, and he had two years worth of questions to ask. Sherlock had poured the water into the tea pot, set out two cups (he’d looked for John’s favorite mug only to find it no longer in the cupboard), milk, and sugar. He’d put it all on a tray, set it rather too harshly onto the coffee table, fell into his chair… 

And the waiting had begun.

Sherlock was very good at sitting still usually. He could go days on end without speaking, without moving. But he couldn’t seem to manage it tonight.

He paced, drummed his fingers, watched the clock. By the time he decided to change into his pajamas, it was nearly two in the morning and he had already retuned his violin and stabbed the fireplace mantle approximately 57 times. The tea was cold and he hadn’t had a drop. He hung his coat up from its place on John’s chair, fluffing the flag pillow and smoothing the velvet out.

It was two thirty and Sherlock listened to Ms. Hudson’s bedroom door close downstairs. No doubt she had been waiting up for John. She’d given up. He wouldn’t.

Sherlock kept his phone in hand. John may call rather than come over now that it was so late. He had a…fiancé now, after all. Sherlock swallowed hard at the thought, checking his phone again. Another outcome Sherlock had not expected. Of course, he felt foolish now, thinking John had—thinking John _could_ ever feel… whatever Sherlock had felt. Whatever Sherlock feels. That it was John and him, him and John. He never dreamt that there could be any other version of either of their lives, he never thought…

Sherlock pressed his hands over his eyes.

But perhaps he should not have left for two years. For a so-called genius, he seemed to have a habit of realizing things too late when it came to John Watson. Maybe one could only be a genius in one aspect of life, one field. Sherlock considered this. If that was the case, he’d gladly trade his knowledge of chemistry, of crime, of anything, for an upstanding understanding of John. Just John. It may not be more useful in his line of work. But he would be happier. Emotionally. Sherlock blinked at the realization. He was surprised, but it felt… true.

It was approaching four in the morning when Sherlock resigned to his bed. He couldn’t stare at the empty chair across from him any longer. If he did he was worried he may throw something, or miss the mantlepiece and stab himself instead with the amount he’d been at it. He let his phone rest on his chest, fingertips to his chin.

He didn’t want to admit it, but his hopes were crumbling around him. John was not calling. John was not coming up the stairs. John had left him on the curb after hitting him once, twice, three times. He found that his chest hurt more than his cheek or nose.

Sherlock was just beginning to resign himself to a few more hours of sitting completely still until it was considered a socially acceptable hour to rise and start a day in the life of the living, when his phone buzzed against his ribs, shocking Sherlock’s eyes open.

_John_

The screen said John.

Sherlock had barely picked up before he was saying his name.

He was met with a few beats of silence and then, slowly, “You’re awake.”

Sherlock felt pinned against the mattress, “You don't sound surprised.”

The response was more immediate this time, “I’m not.”

 _“You’re_ awake.”

Sherlock nearly closed his eyes at the familiar scoff, “Yes, of _course_ I’m awake.”

“I… I’m not surprised… either.” Sherlock had never struggled for words so much in his life.

Silence followed and Sherlock thought he heard John pouring himself tea, or maybe a drink.

“Jesus,” A chair scooted back over the line and John sighed as he sat now, “I’ve not a clue what to say. How’s the nose?”

Sherlock felt himself smile a little at the comment. This was the most normal he had felt in two entire years, “Not as bad as the ribs.”

John chuckled softly, the way he did when he was confused, “What? I didn’t hit you in the ribs.”

“No. You didn’t.”

Silence followed again. Sherlock heard John’s breathing stop and restart, “Sherlock-“

“Don’t worry, I’m okay-“

“No, that’s not the point, Sherlock, the point is that you let me- You let me knock you around when someone else had been doing god knows what god knows where.”

“Don’t worry, you’re much gentler than Serbian interrogators.”

He heard John set his tea down too hard, “ _What?_ I- Oh my god, I swear, if you’re joking-“

“I don’t joke.”

Another laugh, this time disbelieving. It sent another shock of relief through Sherlock, “ _Yes_ you do, Jesus, _Jesus_ -“

“John. I’m okay-“

“Well, you were dead this morning!”

John’s breathing was harsh over the phone. Sherlock could picture him rubbing his eyes. Sherlock just listened for a moment to the familiar sound. He didn’t know how to start. Sorry was nothing, not what was needed, it wasn’t enough.

“John…” Sherlock let out a breath, “I-“

“Don’t you dare say you’re-“

“I wanted to tell you so many times-“

“God, did you now?” John was nearly fuming again, “That’s the first time you haven’t given into one of your impulses.”

Sherlock closed his eyes. _Hardly, John. Hardly._

Sherlock breathed deeply through his nose, “You’re right. I should know better.”

Sherlock heard a clatter that sounded like John throwing his cup in the sink, “Yes. Yes, you should.”

“Maybe I’ll give into one right now.”

A beat of silence, “What?”

Sherlock was already halfway to the door, “I’m coming over.”

The laugh was back, nervous and relieved this time, “Sherlock it’s nearly five-“

“I’m giving into an impulse, John.”

“Right…” A chair scraped back, “Yes, okay. Alright.”

“I’ll catch a cab. Text me the address, would you?”

Sherlock thought he heard a hitch in breath, a small sniff maybe. It made his chest ache, “Yeah.”

Sherlock shrugged half way into his coat, “Okay-“

“Right, can we not say goodbye?”

Sherlock’s brows furrowed, “John?”

“’s just the last time you said…” John couldn’t seem to finish but he didn’t have to.

Sherlock understood. He understood and he knew he’d never utter the word ‘goodbye’ to John Watson again.

“See you soon, John.”


	2. part ii

John answered the door before Sherlock could even text him to let him know of his arrival, and immediately stepped out onto the front steps, already dressed for the cool London air. Sherlock’s eyes fell onto his scarf. His dark blue cashmere scarf. His gaze made John look down too.

“Oh.” He shuffled, “I’d forgotten I ever…” He glanced back up at Sherlock to see him smiling slightly. His neck warmed but he couldn’t help but slowly offer once of his own, “took that..”

Sherlock studied it a moment more then looked out to the street, the streetlamp casting his high cheekbones in stark contrast. John felt the tug. The oh-so familiar tug snug deep inside his chest that he hadn’t felt in so long. That he’d felt for the first time in two years earlier that night. Sherlock’s voice broke his gaze.

“Are we walking then?”

John cleared his throat, “Yes, I thought It’d be more…” he shook his head as they trotted down the steps side by side, “I don’t know what, I thought It’d be nice.”

“Walking is scientifically proven to let blood flow easier, therefore clearing and stimulating the brain at the same time and making it easier for thoughts to form and function…”

Sherlock broke off and fell back next to John, realizing he’d walked a step ahead of him.

“Yes?”

Sherlock tried to study John’s profile, “You usually stop me by now.”

“Oh.” John kept his eyes ahead, “Well, I haven’t heard it in a while.” He glanced at Sherlock, “Might’ve missed it.”

Sherlock nearly fell behind this time. He fought to keep his voice neutral, “Really?”

John let out a little laugh, “I’m going to regret those words.”

“Probably, yes.”

Sherlock watched the neon sign of the 24 hour cafe catch John’s eye, and nodded quietly when he asked if he wanted a tea for the road. He waited, hands clasped behind his back and facing the street while John went in. He felt good about how things were going so far. John seemed… Sherlock closed his eyes. John seemed like he wanted Sherlock to think he was okay. Sherlock almost felt disappointed that John thought he couldn’t see through that.

“Right, two sugars, this one’s yours.”

Sherlock turned, starting slightly. He looked down at John whose cheeks were pink from going from the warm shop to the cold early morning.

John rolled his eyes, eyes crinkling in a smile, “Stop looking at me like that, of course I remembered.”

But Sherlock couldn’t. He didn’t think he’d ever be able to stop looking at John like that. John who was the only person who bothered to remember how he likes his tea—save Ms. Hudson. John who was the only person in the world who could read, not his thoughts, but his emotions. The only person in the world who acknowledged he even had normal emotions.

John had turned his eyes to the city line, nodding towards it as he blew on his paper cup, “We’re gonna see a nice sunrise.”

Sherlock blinked, attempting to regain his composer, “Ah, yes. Day one back in the land of the living.”

He didn’t miss John’s flinch and instantly regretted his attempt at a joke.

“Do me a favor,” John sighed, “Don’t-“

“I won’t say things like that.”

John studied him for a moment then snorted, mumbling something like “bloody mind reader” as he led the way across the street to a small park with empty benches.

_Hardly, John. Hardly._

John chose the bench with the best view of the only barely pinking sky, sitting down with a sigh and crossing his ankles. Sherlock took the seat beside him wordlessly, burning his tongue on his still too hot tea.

“This is… odd, Sherlock.”

“Two people waiting for the a sunrise? I hardly think that’s the definition-“

“Sherlock..” John’s voice was soft, much more serious than before. Sherlock took the hint. They needed this. They needed words—good, solid words—not to dance around each other.

Sherlock nodded once, looking down into his tea, “Yes. Yes, I suppose this is.”

John leaned back against the bench, eyes on the man beside him. Really, odd was not the word to describe this situation but, then again, he’s never been particularly good with words. He was in disbelief. Here he was, watching his best friend—his very _dead_ best friend—sip a cup of tea and joke about watching the sunrise.

“You’ve got terrible timing.” He settled on.

Sherlock straightened, “I gathered that. You know, with the ring and the wine… the restaurant reservations-“

“No,” John laughed, he couldn’t help it, “Well, yes, that is also terrible timing, but I mean longterm.”

Sherlock finally looked back at him, “Longterm?”

John set his cup beside him to cool, “You jump of a bloody building, I-“ John’s chest suddenly feels tight at that hard fact, “I _saw_ you- okay, you’re going to have to tell me-“ He pinched the bridge of his nose, “No, sorry, not the point right now. The _point_ -“ he closed his eyes briefly before turning back to his friend, “is, is that you died but you didn’t. You died… and you let me watch you die, and then you let me grieve and- God, Sherlock… I grieved. I grieved…”

The air is filled with just their breathing for a moment, both labored, both filled with the sting of unshed tears. This is not what friends are suppose to do to one another.

“I wasn’t okay, Sherlock, I was not okay. For so long.” John said between breaths, “I met Mary, honestly pretty recently and she… God, she helped. She helped and I got a little better every day.”

“John-“

“No.” John let out a long breath, “I got better and then you come back and you see me better and that isn’t _fair_. Because now you have no idea what you did to me. What your death did to me. What losing you…”

John couldn’t finish and turned away, picking up his tea and quickly taking a sip. Sherlock was left breathless and frozen.  
“John..” He tried again and this time wasn’t cut off. John’s hand was shaking. He didn’t seem to have any words left for now, “What I- What I said before at the chips place…” Sherlock closed his eyes. His brain felt foggy. Without the usual sharpness he felt bare, unarmed. He forced his eyes open again, pushing against the fog of emotions, “John, I try not to say things I don’t mean. I meant what I said. It was for your protection. I’m not-“ he cut John off when he opened his mouth to speak, “making excuses. I made this mistake. I made this mistake and I’m so, so sorry.”

John’s cup was nearly squashed in his hands from his grip and was in great danger of spilling over. His breathing was labored, his head bowed, “Yes.” He let out a shaky breath, “Yes, well I’m the one who made the mistake of getting use to it.”  
Sherlock’s mind immediately reeled, searching for context for the statement, but coming up blank, “Getting use to what?”

John bit at the inside of his cheek for a moment, worrying the skin, before looking back at Sherlock, blue eyes swimming, “You always being there.”

And Sherlock felt it all over again. The cold pavement on his back, John’s fingers on his temporarily stopped pulse, his cries and broken words. Sherlock Holmes, high-functioning sociopath, felt heartbreak for the second time in his life.

“Please…” Sherlock swallowed, both halves of his heart hammering, “Please get used to it again.”

For a split second Sherlock saw John’s jaw clench before it was hidden from view, John’s tea falling to the ground as he dropped his head into his hands, shoulders shaking.

“John..” Sherlock felt his own voice break. He couldn’t think straight, he was at a loss for words. All he could seem to see in his mind was _John._ All he could think was that John was hurting and it was his fault. It had been his fault for two years. The ache that settled in after that thought burned like acid.

John’s voice came out muffled and thick, “You have to understand-“

“I do. I do understand, John-“

“No, you _don’t_.” John was looking up now, eyes rimmed red and burning into Sherlock’s, “You were suddenly gone, and I was suddenly _right_ back where I was before I met you. I couldn’t _sleep_ , I was _alone_ , and every night staring down the fucking barrel of a-“ John closed his eyes turning his head away.

But Sherlock didn’t need him too. His mind had finished the sentence for him and for once he wished he wasn’t so fucking quick. He couldn’t breathe.

He didn’t have words but, he decided, right now he didn’t need them.

He reached out, tilting John’s face towards him and, for once, acted without logic, without thinking. He kissed him. He kissed John because he loved him, because he always had, and because it said everything he couldn’t. He kissed him because sorry wasn’t enough—he was sorry, he was in love.

John didn’t freeze like he expected him to. Instead, he reacted like he’d been shocked, touched by fire, and didn’t miss a beat in fisting the collar of Sherlock’s coat, other hand in his hair. He was crying, Sherlock thought maybe he was crying as well, but it didn’t matter. Tears mixed and Sherlock pulled John closer by the waist, his tea joining John’s, forgotten at their feet.

When they parted they were breathing hard and the sky was a brilliant orange and red. John didn’t say anything, just leaned his face into Sherlock’s neck where Sherlock could feel him breathing. It was the most comforting thing in the world and Sherlock let his eyes slipped closed, feeling like he’d been waiting for this for an eternity. And, for that moment, everything felt okay. Or like it would be.

For that moment, it was just the two of them against the world. Once again.


End file.
